


A Yellow Wood

by PipMer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Johnlock, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Gift Fic, M/M, POV Outsider, Pre-Slash, no infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 03:31:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1453858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had heard stories from those who knew them best, tales about an epic friendship rarely found anywhere other than literature and cinema.  Surely that was all she was seeing, evidence of what had been described to her ad nauseam.  It couldn’t be anything more than that….could it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Yellow Wood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maladroitoracle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maladroitoracle/gifts).



> This is a very late birthday gift for my friend maladroitoracle. She enjoys seeing Sherlock and John's relationship through a third party's eyes, and this time I chose Mary as that third party. Yes, this does end in johnlock, and no, there is no marital infidelity. I must say, though, that throwing a baby into the mix complicated things a bit; I hope I handled that part in a satisfactory manner. I'm sorry for the lateness, my friend. A stomach bug and long work days contributed to that, but I hope it's worth the wait. Happy belated birthday! 
> 
>  
> 
> As always, many thanks go to prettybirdy979 for the quick beta and for the title, which comes from that very famous poem by Robert Frost. Birdy said this fic reminded her of that poem, hence the title; you can find it at the end of this story.

 

 

 

 

 

She should have walked out of the restaurant that very first night and left them to it.  Looking back, it would have been the best for all of them.  She was self-aware enough to admit that walking away would have been less about their happiness and more about her own self-preservation.  There was no shame in protecting oneself, after all.

 

 

A bit late for that realisation, but better late than never.  Because ‘never’ surely would have been the ruin of them all.

 

 

***

 

 

When they locked eyes for the first time in two years, she could feel the energy thrumming and crackling beneath all the tension.  As angry as John was, she sensed something else lurking under the surface.  His rage was just a cover for something else – something more complicated and less defined.  She watched as a kaleidoscope of emotions flickered in his eyes – sadness, disbelief, betrayal – all of them in stark contrast to the way he tried to hold back the smile that threatened to blossom in the face of Sherlock’s outrageous attempt at levity.  A study in contradictions, that was her John.  She didn’t know if he was preparing to punch the man – or to hug him.

 

 

And the way _He_ looked at John, both expectant and tentative, as if his entire existence hinged on his friend’s reaction – it made her heart ache.

 

 

That was her first mistake - feeling anything resembling sympathy for Sherlock Holmes.

 

 

*** 

 

 

Her second mistake was offering to talk John round.  If she hadn’t stepped in to facilitate their reunion, they would in all likelihood have remained estranged.  She still would have the whole of her husband’s heart, the entirety of his affections and focus.  But she had, and therefore she didn’t.  It was as simple as that.  Funny how one action could determine the path of three different futures.

 

She felt her first twinge of foreboding after she enlisted Sherlock’s help when John went missing.   As urgent as her desperation had been, it was equally matched by the raw fierceness and determination radiating off of the detective once he realised the danger John was in.  His concern rivalled her own; she honestly couldn’t say which of them had been more terrified during the search and rescue.

 

 

One thing she did know for certain.  That when John opened his eyes after being pulled from the flames, it was Sherlock he reached for first, not her.

 

*** 

 

For his first birthday following his triumphant return, she invited Sherlock to her (their) home for an intimate celebration, just the three of them.  She had an ulterior motive, certainly; she wanted an opportunity to observe the two of them together in close quarters without being obvious about what she was doing.  She was curious as to what made these two men tick, for she had never before seen a friendship like it.  Friendship?  Relationship?  She wasn’t sure how to define it, and she wasn’t sure they knew either.

 

“Sherlock, bring the wine in here, please; I need to chill it,” she called out from the kitchen as she prepared the salad.  A few minutes passed with no response.  She cocked her head and heard the murmurs of two voices pitched low.  “Sherlock?” she called again.  Still no response.  She wiped her hands on the dish towel and stuck her head out of the room, light-hearted chastisement on the tip of her tongue.

 

The words died in her throat before they had a chance to pass her lips.

 

Her fiancé and his best friend stood facing each other in front of the fireplace, scotch tumblers in hand.  Sherlock’s head was bent down, his mouth inches from John’s ear.  John was looking at the carpet, his other hand stuffed in his trouser pocket and a goofy grin on his face.  His shoulders shook with barely restrained laughter, and even from a distance she could see a pink tint on his cheeks.  An inside joke, most likely.  Perhaps a slightly off-colour one.  Sherlock Holmes put on a grand façade of being distant and aloof, above all human emotion, but he could be very funny when he set his mind to it.  She felt a slight twinge of jealousy at the easy camaraderie, and instantly chastised herself for it.  They were best friends for God’s sake; they had known each other longer than she and John had.  Of course they were going to be comfortable around each other.

 

“Boys,” she said cheerfully, “I really need Sherlock to give me the wine he brought so that it has a chance to get cold before we eat.  Do you mind?”  She held out her hand expectantly, willing it not to shake and for her heart to beat at a normal rate.  Honestly, what was there to be anxious about?  She was in her own home, making a birthday dinner for her fiancé’s closest friend.   Safe.  Normal.  There was nothing to be scared of here.   

 

At her voice John and Sherlock stepped away from each other, but the fond looks on their faces remained.  Sherlock set his scotch down and retrieved the wine from the coffee table, handing it to her with a flourish and a mock bow.  A giggle escaped John’s lips, which he unsuccessfully tried to suppress.  His eyes glittered joyfully as he watched his friend’s antics.  Sherlock turned at the sound of John’s amusement, and the look on his face made her heart stutter.  It wasn’t a look that belonged on the face of an uncaring sociopath.  Rather, it spoke of unabashed affection and adoration, all directed towards her intended.

 

She cleared her throat and gave a tight smile as she took Sherlock’s offering and returned to the kitchen.  She stood before the refrigerator and closed her eyes, taking a deep cleansing breath.  It was fine.  She had heard stories from those who knew them best, tales about an epic friendship rarely found anywhere other than literature and cinema.  Surely that was all she was seeing, evidence of what had been described to her ad nauseam.  It couldn’t be anything more than that….could it?

 

As the evening wore on, she kept her eyes open and all of her other senses on high alert.  If there was something deeper than friendship here, she would suss it out.  Then she would decide what, if anything, she was going to do about it.

 

Sherlock and John’s banter quickly eased into something more relaxed and natural.  Aside from a tendency to invade each other’s personal space to a greater extent than she was used to seeing, no expressions of affection were indulged - not so much as a casual brush of fingers or a shoulder squeeze.  They communicated more with body language and facial expressions than they did with words; entire conversations passed between them with just a shrug or a raised eyebrow.  She felt a bit excluded, to be honest, but she didn’t let it bother her too much.  John was exhibiting more enthusiasm for life than he ever had in the months she’d known him before Sherlock’s return, and she felt nothing but gratitude for that simple fact.  It was true that actions spoke louder than words, but they could easily be misinterpreted for something more or less than the actual intent; they were far less straightforward than the spoken word.  There was nothing to be concerned about unless they started making verbal declarations to each other, and she honestly didn’t see that as even a remote possibility for the foreseeable future.

 

She dared to think she had won by the time the wedding rolled around.  Admittedly, she had been lulled into a false sense of security by Sherlock’s solicitous behaviour during the gruelling months of planning.  His eagerness to help was mostly fuelled by his desire to make John happy, but she chose to imagine that he felt perhaps a smidgen of affection for her as well.  During the time they spent together she developed genuine fondness for him, and in the process gradually lowered her guard around him.  She ceased seeing him as any kind of threat, and started considering him part of her (their) family.

 

Then the best man speech happened, and her stomach plummeted to the soles of her feet.

 

 

_I want to be up there with the two people that I love and care about most in the world._

 

_You sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved - in short, the two people who love you most in all this world._

 

Then John stood up and embraced Sherlock.  And almost did so again in the middle of the dance floor after being informed that he was going to be a father.  All of the boundaries between them were collapsing, one after another, and she was powerless to stop it.

 

She could understand subtext just as well as the next person, and what she read was this:  Not only did Sherlock’s love for John rival even her own; John clearly returned the sentiment with equal fervour and intensity.

 

 

When Sherlock deduced her pregnancy, relief as well as anxiety washed over her.  This was her ace in the hole.  With a baby on the way, John’s attention would be focussed on her; there would be no time for the distractions and temptations that Sherlock was able to offer.

 

 

At least, that was her thought at the time.

 

 

*** 

 

 

She never expected sentiment to get the better of her.  Any other time, any other _person,_ and she would have gone for the kill shot.  Innocent bystander or no, one bullet right between the eyes, and the threat would have been gone for good.  But she could no more eliminate her husband’s best friend than she could harm her own child.  She had witnessed first-hand what the two meant to each other, and she had no intention of jeopardising that any more than necessary.  So she performed surgery, dialled emergency services, and prayed that Sherlock cared enough about John to fight to return to him.

 

 

It wasn’t his survival that impressed her as much as what he did next.

 

 

*** 

 

 

Not only did he forgive her and refuse to hold a grudge; he convinced _John_ to forgive her and to not only allow her back into his life, but to _embrace_ her as his wife and the mother of his child.  Sherlock Holmes, arguably the most selfish person on the planet, willingly handed over the other half of his heart to her.  At a point when he could have easily convinced John to turn his back on her and return to his (their) life at Baker Street, Sherlock instead gave him up – sacrificed his own happiness – all so that John could have the life he deserved and apparently wanted.  In contrast, she had done the exact opposite.  She had fought to hold onto her husband tooth and nail, desperate to keep him by her side whatever the cost.

 

 

So who loved John more, then?  If she followed the trail of evidence to the end, what would she find?  Could it be that the self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath cared for him more than his own wife?  She wasn’t sure she would like the answer, so she did what mere mortals do who don’t have the option of deletion - she pushed the question into the farthest reaches of her mind, and tried to pretend that the answer was so obvious it didn’t need any further reflection.

 

 

But in her experience, avoiding a problem rarely yielded a positive result.  The truth always worked itself around to the point where it refused to be ignored, demanding to be dealt with before things blew up and everything went to hell.

 

 ***

 

Standing on the black tarmac with the east wind at her back, she found she could no longer ignore the elephant in the room.  Her epiphany happened as she stood hand in hand with her husband, watching the plane take off into parts unknown.  She saw it in John’s haunted eyes as they greedily tracked the trajectory of the plane, as if the force of his will could pull it back down to earth again.  She felt it in the way his hand trembled as it clutched hers for dear life.   In that moment, it became crystal clear where all this was headed.

 

 

 

No matter how far away Sherlock travelled, no matter how long he stayed away… he would always carry John’s heart with him, always.  There wasn’t even a splinter of it left behind for her to cherish. If she and John remained married to the end of their days, and today was the last time they saw the detective - even then, the spectre of Sherlock would always hover over and between them, like a jealous lover who refused to admit defeat.

 

 

 

She deserved better.  They all did.

 

 

 

As soon as the plane turned around and it was obvious that Sherlock wasn’t going anywhere, she made her decision.  Perseverance and determination were well and good, up to a point.  There came a time, however, when letting go was the more prudent and wise course, for all concerned.

 

***

 

After the whole Moriarty debacle was finally laid to rest, only two weeks remained until her due date.  It was finally time to confront her husband with the truth.  John resisted at first, as she knew he would.  Loyalty and adherence to duty were admirable qualities, but she didn’t want them to be the reasons he stayed with her.  She barely got past “We need to talk” before he started panicking in earnest.

 

 

“What are you talking about?  I thought we were happy,” he exclaimed, voice rising in pitch.  “The threat is finally behind us.  You and the baby are safe.  Sherlock is safe.  If you want, I’ll stop going on cases with him.  I’ll even stop seeing him altogether if it makes you more comfortable.  We can all get on with our lives now that the danger’s past.”

 

 

She broke forth with a laugh, incredulous.  “But that’s the whole _point,_ John.  It’s the danger you thrive on; you and Sherlock both.  You can’t live without it.  _I’m_ the one who’s been trying to leave that life behind, for years now.  But I can’t ask you to do the same.”

 

 

“Please,” John begged.  “Please, Mary.   We can make it work, I swear.  I’ll do _anything_ for her sake.  Just… don’t take my child away from me.  I couldn’t bear that.”

 

 

Her eyebrows rose in surprise.  _Oh._ So that’s what this was about.

 

 

She reached out and touched his hand.  “John,” she said softly.  “That was _not_ my intention.  Never in a million years would I do that to you.”

 

 

John looked at her, perplexed.  “I don’t understand.  What exactly are you proposing?”

 

 

After she told him, his jaw dropped and he gave her a look of utter dismay.  He pulled at his hair in exasperation.  “Mary, do I really have to tell _you_ of all people that Sherlock and I aren’t like that?  We never were.  Christ, why does everyone think –“

 

 

“John!” she snapped.  “ _Of course_ I know the two of you aren’t like that.  _Everyone_ knows that.  But what everyone _also_ knows is that you _want_ to be.”  She shook her head when he opened his mouth to deny it.  “You’re the only two who can’t see it.  Idiots the both of you, genius and doctor notwithstanding.  You either really can’t see what’s right in front of you… or you’re too scared to pursue it.”

 

 

She didn’t fail to notice the way John’s eyes shifted down and to the right.  “Ah,” she said.  “I see. You never acted on your feelings because you felt _guilty_ for having them in the first place.   You didn’t want to hurt me by admitting to something you could only see as a betrayal on your part.  You couldn’t be honest with me, so you stopped being honest with yourself as well.  Instead, you convinced yourself that it was _me_ you wanted, and before you knew it you felt trapped with no way out.  The rest is history.”

 

 

John traced patterns in the floor with the tip of his shoe, avoiding her eyes.  “He was dead.  I couldn’t…. and then he came back.  And I still couldn’t.  Because then I had you.  And - he would never want me that way anyway, not in a million years.”

 

 

“You’re wrong,” she said firmly, a no-nonsense tone to her voice.  “Go to Baker Street, tell him how you feel, _then_ let me know what you think of my plan.  And don’t look at me like that.  You won’t be cheating on me; I’m giving you permission, for God’s sake.”

 

 

She smiled sadly as the conflicted emotions washed across his face.  She placed a hand on his cheek.

 

 

“Go be with your detective, Doctor John Watson.  It’s what you were born to do.”

 

 

*** 

 

 

When she placed Gloria Scott-Watson into John’s waiting arms for the last time, she knew she had made the right choice.  It had been remarkably fortuitous, the decision to link her true surname with her (ex)husband’s when naming their daughter.  It was only fitting, after all, that she be named for both of the men who would be raising her.

 

William Sherlock Scott Holmes stood at John’s side as she relinquished her child to their keeping.  The detective’s arm settled around his doctor’s waist, face lit up in sheer delight as he stepped closer to gaze upon Gloria with a look of utter enthrallment.  Her heart clenched when he turned to the man next to him and graced him with a blinding smile that she had come to recognise as his just-for-John smile.  Her chest squeezed even tighter when he placed a tender kiss on John’s temple.  The three of them looked as if they made up a natural family unit.  Perhaps they did, and her role had simply been as the conduit bringing them all together.

 

 

“Are you sure, Mary?” John asked softly, concern shadowing his features.

 

 

 

She jerked her head up and down in a parody of a nod.  She fisted her hands deep into her coat pockets and fidgeted as she sought for the right words.  “Some of those I killed were innocent people,” she explained, not daring to meet John’s eyes as she did so. ”I was blackmailed into it, but that doesn’t change the fact that I ruined the lives of their loved ones.  I want to make restitution, at least as much as I’m able.”

 

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stared at her intently.  “You’re going into protective custody,” he said.

 

 

“Yes.  Then I’m going to testify against some very bad people.  After that, I’ll be relocating and assuming a new identity, with another new name.  It’s nothing I haven’t done before, except this time I’ll have the blessing of the British government.  All very legal and proper, for once.  Maybe I’ll finally be able to make up for some of the damage I’ve done.  At least I won’t be dragging _her_ into it.”  She pointed her chin at the small bundle in John’s arms.

 

 

John cradled his daughter as he rocked his arms in a soothing, swaying motion.  “You’re still her mother.”

 

 

“Yes.  And she has my name to prove it.”  She glanced at Sherlock.  “And she has Sherlock’s name to prove that she belongs to him as well.  You and he are _together,_ John.  She may have me as a mother, but she only needs two parents.”  She shrugged, mouth quirked in a half-smile.  “This woman knows when she's been beaten.  I've seen enough battles to know a losing one.”

 

 

Before stepping back, she leaned forward and kissed Gloria’s forehead.  “Farewell, sweet one,” she said softly, running her hand across her daughter’s soft downy hair one last time.  “Be good for your daddies.  They aren’t perfect, but there’s no one on this earth who loves you more.”

 

 

She thought, but didn’t say, _And no two people who love each_ other _more._

 

She swallowed hard before lifting her head and looking at the two men standing before her.  She held John’s soft blue gaze for several seconds.  After seeing nothing but warmth and gratitude there, her attention darted to the man standing next to him.  Sharp grey eyes bored into her own, and she couldn’t help but flinch.  She had been able to hide her true self from him at one point, but she could no longer do that.  She no longer wanted to.  That intense focus softened, just a little, and she felt her shoulders relax.  Finally, she and Sherlock Holmes were on the same page.  All either of them wanted was John’s happiness.

 

 

And if she managed to keep the secret selfish part hidden – the part that demanded _I deserve some happiness too –_ well, that was her prerogative, wasn’t it?   Damned if she was going to be the martyr in this situation without allowing for the possibility of making her own dreams come true.  All three - no, all _four_ of them - could get that chance now.  All it would take would be for her to turn and walk away. 

 

 

So that’s exactly what she did.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**THE ROAD NOT TAKEN**

 

 

_Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,_

_And sorry I could not travel both_

_And be one traveler, long I stood_

_And looked down one as far as I could_

_To where it bent in the undergrowth;_

_Then took the other, as just as fair_

_And having perhaps the better claim,_

_Because it was grassy and wanted wear;_

_Though as for that the passing there_

_Had worn them really about the same,_

_And both that morning equally lay_

_In leaves no step had trodden black._

_Oh, I kept the first for another day!_

_Yet knowing how way leads on to way,_

_I doubted if I should ever come back._

_I shall be telling this with a sigh_

_Somewhere ages and ages hence:_

_Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —_

_I took the one less traveled by,_

_And that has made all the difference._

 

_\--_ Robert Frost, 1916

 

**Author's Note:**

> Quotes from The Sign of Three were taken from Ariane_Devere's transcript [here](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/65379.html).
> 
>  
> 
> Maladroitoracle, I know this was probably angstier than your usual fare, but that's sort of the nature of the beast when Mary is part of a story in which johnlock is the endgame, yes? At any rate, it does have your requisite Sherlock/John happy ending, and an open-ended one for Mary. And again, happy belated birthday!!


End file.
